A Family Recipe

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Right. Do you want to elucidate? Only it’s useful for me to put this request into context so I can make a decision.’

  ‘I think if I carry on I’m in danger of burning out. It’s not that I can’t manage the workload. It’s for … personal reasons.’

  ‘I’m guessing this is related to what I called you in about?’

  Antonia held his gaze. ‘Can I plead the fifth amendment? On the grounds that it might incriminate me?’

  He looked around the room for a moment while considering his response.

  ‘And if I say no?’

  ‘I’ll have to hand in my notice. And I’m owed at least three weeks’ leave so …’

  James Kettle was a reasonable man. He knew perfectly well that Antonia was invaluable, but also that they could manage without her for a short period of time. And actually, if you were going to lose a valued member of staff for a couple of months, over Christmas was probably a good time to do it. Yes, it was frantic just before, but there were weeks afterwards when no one expected anything to have been attended to. If she could be back in saddle by the spring …

  ‘How long do you want?’

  ‘I was thinking three months. Long enough for me to get my head together.’

  ‘And for the dust to settle?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘If I grant you this leave and you come back with a clean slate …’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

  ‘OK. Just give us enough time so we can reassign your workload and you can brief everyone on what you’ve been handling. Then I’ll see you back at your desk in … March?’

  She stood up. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t let me down.’

  ‘I won’t. I love working here. You know that.’

  James nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She managed a smile. ‘That’s the whole point, though. Every day for the past ten years has been mapped out and scheduled and organised. I need to learn to let go.’

  ‘Just don’t let go too much, OK?’ James smiled.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that.’

  She flashed him a grin, and for a moment he saw a glimpse of another Antonia, and he thought she was doing just the right thing. It was important, in life, to recognise your faults and weaknesses and address them. He just hoped she wouldn’t fall in love while she was away – not with a person, necessarily, but perhaps a place or another way of life.

  He watched her as she left the room. James admired Antonia. He could tell she was on her way to the top, and he had no doubt whatsoever that she would make it, once she’d cleaned up her act.

  Everyone was allowed to make a mistake. Just one.

  Antonia knew this was the only way. For her to get out of Bath while the Griffins repaired their marriage. It was no good if she was on the periphery. If she was handling the conveyancing. If she might bump into Dom or Laura at any moment. She had to get as far away as she could, for as long as she could.

  And maybe, just maybe, she would find a new Antonia while she was away.

  36

  Two weeks later, Kanga took a call from the manageress at Amhurst House at eight o’clock in the morning. As soon as she heard her voice, she knew. It had that consummately professional mixture of sympathy and matter-of-factness. She was very sad to tell her that Ivy had passed away at 4.38 a.m.

  ‘She deteriorated rather yesterday afternoon, and we got the doctor to come out. He was worried she was getting a chest infection and gave her some antibiotics. She didn’t suffer. It was very peaceful. She really did just slip away.’

  Kanga hung up the phone after agreeing to come over to the home to make arrangements. She shivered, even though the heating went on in her little house at seven. The world seemed a colder place altogether. She could feel that Ivy was no longer there. She really could. Desolation descended, icy and unforgiving.

  She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She had no tears, it seemed. They would come, no doubt, but for now she felt numb. She gathered her things together to drive over to Amhurst House.

  Then, for a moment, she wavered. She wasn’t sure, this time, that she had the strength to manage on her own. Now it was over, and she didn’t have Ivy left to fight for, she felt vulnerable. She hesitated. She wanted comfort. Someone else’s strength. She wasn’t used to asking for it.

  But she decided she would. There was nothing wrong in admitting defeat and asking for help. The home wouldn’t mind if she was late. It wouldn’t affect anything. They had called the undertaker.

  She went out to her front door and stepped into the garden. There was frost on her front step and glittering across the lawn, and she reminded herself to get some de-icer. She couldn’t afford to fall, like Ivy.

  She walked tentatively and carefully along the path, then opened the French door that led into the kitchen. The warmth embraced her, and the scent of coffee. She stood in the doorway, unable to think, unable to speak, utterly overwhelmed.

  A figure at the Aga turned. It was Dom. It wasn’t Dom she wanted. She was glad he was back, but she was still cross with him. They hadn’t had the conversation yet, although they would at some point. He knew she was disappointed in him, but he was still convalescing. There would be time for the conversation when he was stronger.

  ‘Kanga?’ He put down what he was doing and came over to her. ‘Kanga, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Ivy …’ She couldn’t say any more, but she didn’t need to.

  And the next moment she found herself folded up in Dom’s big arms. He scooped her up and brought her into the warm, and suddenly what he had done didn’t matter so much because he was there for her, comforting her, making her feel safe. And then Laura came downstairs.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ said Laura. ‘Oh, Kanga. Lovely Ivy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kanga, her weeping overtaking her.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Dom. ‘We all loved Ivy. They broke the mould when they made her.’

  It took her an hour to gather herself. Dom made her hot sweet cocoa, and even that made her cry, remembering the cocoa Ivy had made her that first night, here in this very kitchen.

  ‘It’s OK to be sad,’ said Laura. ‘It’s OK to be sad.’

  Kanga agreed that Laura should drive her to Amhurst House. She felt as if she might be a little in shock, so it wasn’t a sign of weakness.

  She embraced Beverley in the reception hall, next to the Christmas tree that had been put up on the first day of the month.

  ‘My mum,’ said Beverley, distraught. ‘My little mum. She drove us mad, but we loved her to bits.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ replied Kanga. ‘She was one in a million.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Beverley, and Kanga paused. A carol was spilling out of the speaker. ‘The Holly and the Ivy …’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘How perfect.’

  It brought the years spinning back. That first Christmas after her parents had gone. And the most important thing Ivy had ever done for her. The most precious memory of all.

  37

  1942

  The horrors of the Blitz had gradually slipped further and further behind them at Number 11. Of course, they would never fade from memory completely, but as each day passed without any further bombings, everyone became a little less tense. Life was returning to something resembling normality as the city rebuilt itself.

  The house was a little quieter once Tony had gone, his leave over. But they had muddled through, the three of them. Once her sickness had abated, Jilly got bigger by the day. She had kept herself busy throughout the autumn, harvesting everything that the garden had offered up and preserving it for the months ahead, then preparing the ground and replanting seeds to ensure a plentiful supply of food for next year.

  She was proud of the larder. The shelves were groaning with jars and pots of pickle and chutney and jam. She followed her mother’s recipes carefully, although as she grew more confident she made little change
s which she marked on the cards in red pen to show they were her addenda. A different spice, a little less sugar, a more daring mixture of ingredients: she loved the science behind it, but also how experimentation could lead to pleasant surprises.

  Helena helped too. Ivy wasn’t interested. She didn’t have a domestic bone in her body and wasn’t interested in food or where it came from, but Helena found it soothing and therapeutic. She was incredibly neat and particular: cutting green beans into exact lengths, slicing cucumber with precision, choosing the perfect berries – she was far more diligent than Jilly, who chopped with gay abandon and found herself chastised by her pupil.

  ‘It’s as much about how it looks as how it tastes,’ said Helena.

  And now their handiwork was displayed in the larder, Jilly had to agree it was worth making the extra effort. Every time she went in there, she had an enormous sense of satisfaction and order. There was so much bounty, they were able to wrap some of the wares as presents: a jar of raspberry jam and a jar of green tomato chutney were a welcome addition to anyone’s household.

  The house looked and smelled glorious as Christmas galloped nearer. The children were semi-hysterical with excitement. Jilly was determined to make it particularly special for them after everything that had happened. She loved everything to do with Christmas, so it was no hardship to totally indulge in preparations.

  She took the children up to the woods and they gathered as much holly as they could, lugging it back in a little four-wheeled truck. She made a wreath for the front door – not a very good one but it was made with love – and tied bunches of holly with red ribbon to the bannisters. She trailed ivy along the mantelpiece in the drawing room and set up the Christmas cards in between the carriage clock and the Staffordshire china dogs.

  That had been difficult. Cards started arriving from the middle of December from people who didn’t know what had happened. If there was an address on the back of the envelope Jilly took the time to write and tell the sender the sad news, but sometimes there wasn’t one. Was she going to have to face this every Christmas until the end of time? Cards to her mum and dad from people who didn’t know?

  They spent one afternoon making paper chains in orange and red and yellow and green. Jilly put as many candles as she could spare around the drawing room on Christmas Eve and they sat by the tree singing carols. So, as Christmas approached, the terrible sadness Jilly had been feeling started to fade as everyone’s excitement grew.

  On Christmas morning she woke feeling exhausted before she’d even got up. Her back and legs were aching, but she’d been doing an awful lot over the past few days to get everything ready, delivering Christmas cards by hand around the neighbourhood, queueing early at the butcher to get the last few things they needed. She pulled herself out of bed; the meat needed to go in, the potatoes needed peeling. She thought perhaps she’d strained her back the day before, moving the Christmas tree into a better position to get the presents underneath. There was a sharp twinge whenever she moved. She’d have to start taking it easy. She couldn’t go lugging things around in her condition.

  In the end, it was worth the effort. Christmas lunch was a triumph, even if she said it herself. She and Helena had worked hard to make everything as delicious as they could, despite rationing. They had decided to save all the sugar and butter for the pudding, and go without a cake, as the pudding was the dramatic centrepiece.

  In the kitchen, Jilly had to steady herself before she lifted the steaming pudding in its cloth out of the saucepan. She felt the pains again, and thought how ridiculous not to be able to lift a pudding any more. She took in a few breaths and moved herself around until the pain eased, then plopped the pudding onto a big silver tray she had polished for the purpose.

  Jilly laughed as she brought the pudding to the table, decorated with holly and blazing with brandy flames.

  ‘This looks just like me,’ she said. ‘I am a Christmas pudding!’

  As she bent over to put it on the table, she felt a sharper pain, lower down this time. She put her hand out to support herself, then gasped as the pain travelled round and squeezed the very breath out of her.

  ‘Ooowwwww,’ she moaned.

  Ivy jumped up and came to her side. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Jilly could hardly speak. ‘Ah. It hurts. Oh. Oh my goodness. Oh dear.’

  She looked down.

  ‘That’s your waters gone,’ said Ivy. ‘Oh my. We’re going to have a Christmas baby.’

  Helena’s eyes were as round as the pudding.

  ‘Not in the kitchen!’

  ‘Come on,’ said Ivy, holding Jilly’s arms. ‘Lean on me and let’s get you in the lounge. In front of the fire. There’s plenty of room on the floor.’

  ‘What about the carpet?’ panicked Jilly.

  ‘Bugger the carpet,’ said Ivy.

  ‘Get blankets and pillows,’ Helena told the children. ‘Shouldn’t we call a doctor? Or the midwife?’ asked Ivy.

  ‘It’s Christmas lunch,’ said Ivy. ‘No one’s going to want to come out.’

  ‘Well, I had my three at home. I know what to do. I suppose.’ Helena looked doubtful.

  ‘And I was there for most of my cousins. We’ll sort it out between us. Though you could have waited till we’d had pudding,’ Ivy teased Jilly.

  ‘And what about presents? We were going to do presents after – ooooowwwwwww!’ The next contraction nearly brought Jilly to her knees.

  ‘You’ll have your own little present before long,’ said Ivy.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you lying down,’ coaxed Helena. ‘We don’t want baby dropping out and landing on its head, do we?’

  Three hours, it took. Helena held her hand and talked her through every contraction while Ivy stood over them, eyes wide with empathy, wincing every time Jilly howled with pain. They had sent the children up to their bedroom, but they were lined up on the staircase, one, two, three, waiting with bated breath.

  And then suddenly, with a final effort and a terrible bellow from Jilly, Ivy was pulling the baby from her, laughing with glee and delight.

  ‘A baby girl!’ she cried. ‘A darling little baby girl. Oh, you clever thing, Jilly. You clever, clever thing.’

  And she laid the baby gently on Jilly’s chest.

  Jilly was exhausted and dazed, but she put her hand on the baby’s head.

  ‘You’ll have to call her Holly,’ said Ivy.

  Jilly shook her head.

  ‘Catherine,’ she said. ‘My mother’s name. Baby Catherine.’ She looked up at her friend, her Christmas hairdo all unravelled and her lipstick smudged. ‘Baby Catherine Ivy.’

  38

  From the Bath Chronicle:

  A memorial service takes place on Thursday giving thanks for the life of Mrs Ivy Bennett, nee Skinner. Mrs Bennett died peacefully at the age of 93, leaving two daughters, Kim and Beverley, five grandchildren and a number of great-grandchildren.

  Mrs Bennett lived through the Bath Blitz and was a well-known hairdresser in Bath for many years. She was one of the few survivors of the Blitz to attend the 75th anniversary memorial service in Victoria Park. She is pictured here with her close friend Mrs Jilly Ingram, nee Wilson. Mrs Ingram said:

  ‘Ivy and I were the firmest of friends, and it was her spirit that kept me going throughout the Blitz, when both my parents were killed, and the rest of the war. She lived with me at Lark Hill and even delivered my daughter, Catherine, on the living-room floor, on Christmas Day 1942. I feel very lucky to have had her as a close friend all of my life.’

  39

  There was a man standing by the mantelpiece in the drawing room of the Royal Crescent Hotel.

  They had all agreed it was the perfect place for Ivy’s memorial: she had loved to come here for lunch, as a treat, and look out over the lawns at the front; she had loved the grand furniture and the paintings, and to pretend to be posh for the day. Kanga had often shared birthday lunches with her here. Sometimes with all her family. Sometimes just the
four of them – Reggie would always order the most expensive champagne on the menu. And lately, just the two of them.

  She stood, with a cup of tea, wondering just who the man was. He looked reticent, and wasn’t with anyone. He must be about the same age as her and Ivy, Kanga thought. He was old, though not entirely frail, and he had on a very nice suit. He moved with the confidence of a man with class. A secret admirer, perhaps? Though he didn’t seem Ivy’s type. She had always gone for the rogues, the silver-tongued rascals, and this man looked more of an establishment type, with a silk tie, the last of his silver hair still well-cut and swept back.

  As she went to catch his eye, perhaps smile at him and ask if he wanted a cup of tea, she suddenly stopped. There was a look about him that seemed familiar. The way he held himself, the smile, the look in his eye. He was walking towards her as if he recognised her. There were not many people he could be, given that most of the people she knew of her age had passed on.

  As he got closer, she stared harder at him. There was one possibility. Though that wasn’t a possibility either. She’d seen his name. She knew she had. In the list of people who’d been killed in action. So it couldn’t be him, but it was so like him. Now he was almost in front of her, she could never forget those eyes.

  ‘Jilly.’

  He said her name – the name that barely anyone used any more – and she thought her heart might stop.

  ‘It can’t be you,’ she said. ‘I saw your name. In the RAF casualty lists. Harry Swann. You died in action.’

  ‘Well, yes. Sadly, Harry did die.’ The man drew himself up. ‘I’m not Harry Swann. I think I owe you an explanation.’

  He swept his hand through the remains of his silver hair.

  Kanga looked around at the rest of the mourners. She couldn’t have this conversation here.

  ‘Shall we step outside? Into the garden? This is rather a shock.’

  ‘Of course. Will you be warm enough?’

  He was chivalrous. She liked that. He took her arm, and the two of them walked out through the hotel and into the walled garden at the back. She turned to him.